Demise of a Knight
by VanHelsings angel
Summary: Oneshot. Lancelot falls to his knees, a crossbow bolt protruding from between his ribs. The thoughts of a dying Knight.


Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur, that belongs to the Bruckheimer dude… That guy owns _everything._

A/N: This is just a bit of drabble that came to me while watching the movie. My first King Arthur fic, even though I love the movie to death. I hope I do it justice here. Please R+R.

Spoilers.

Demise of a Knight

My world spins as I fall to my knees. I open my mouth to yell angrily at Cynric, but I can find no breath.

Winded, that is all… Just winded. I inhale deeply, but the breath ends in a choked gurgle.

I drop my faithful swords, and put a hand to the dull pain in my stomach.

There I find a crossbow bolt, and draw my hand away bloodied; smeared with my draining life.

I look up at Cynric to find a smug, knowing smile on his face. He spits at my knees, slings his crossbow over his shoulder, and turns to stalk confidently away.

I pray to any God that will listen, that Arthur finds him somewhere on this smoke-misted battlefield. I pray that he drives Excalibur through Cynric's hateful Saxon gut.

Yet with blood pouring from the fatal wound in my belly and dribbling from the corners of my mouth, I gather all the failing strength left in my broken body, and pick up a fallen sword.

I hurl the blade with all my might at the smug Saxon bastard.

It finds its mark with a resounding _thunk, _and Cynric falls to his knees, then his side, a glazed mask on his dead face.

I look up at the clouded sky. Its clear blue seems to mock the warriors below. If only Arthur's Briton was like the sky; unblemished, harmonious and free.

But it is no longer my fight- It is for those knights who still stand. Then Tristan's hawk drifts into my weakening vision. She gazes intently at the blood-soaked battle field, as if searching for someone, something…

Where is Tristan? Then her piercing golden eyes seem to meet mine, and she shatters the grunts, war cries and clanging of steel with her own cry.

It echoes in the sudden stillness. A Woad who fights near me hacks into the closest Saxon, looks up, and bellows back.

Through the strengthening pain, I smile an absent, dreamy smile. We will win this fight.

It is not like Bors to take a loss (especially to these Saxons) lying down.

In fact, Bors does not take much lying down, if you will excuse the expression…

My lifeblood stains my armour… It has seen one more battle than it should have… _I _have seen one more battle than I should have.

Arthur should have let us return- left the Romans to fight their own battles, and come home with us.

Now see what Arthur's Romans have done? First Dagonet, now… Hell, I do not fear death at last… Now me.

I do not have the strength of Arthur or Bors, nor the ferociousness of Tristan… Yet together, we as Arthur's Knights of the Round Table are legendary… I hope I am remembered as Lancelot the Brave… One who died needlessly for a cause that wasn't his.

But for a cause all the knights in their hearts fought valiantly for, be it because of faithfulness to Arthur, or that somewhere in this Godforsaken isle we saw a scrap of what we call home.

But Arthur knows this, He knows we fought for him, and he knew from the moment Germanis requested of him one last task that some of us would not survive, too.

And when he set us free on the wall, how could we leave? How could we leave him alone to fight for a country that was his by adoption only?

Yet he stayed and fought, and we with him.

I fall to the ground, landing on my back. I can feel the bolt buried deep in my insides… It will not be long now…

Finally I have come to this, I will die among strangers in a strange country. All I ask is that I am remembered, and Arthur does blow my ashes east, so that I may rest in the country of my birth at last.

Free; to ride unchecked on lands that have no horizon. Not charging into an unknown enemy, or on an urgent errand that must be performed for a foreign general at the speed of light, no.

Through the smoke comes a man in full battle regalia, and for a moment I believe I am looking upon an Angel of War.

As he comes closer, though, I can see the blood of others and possibly himself stain his flesh.

The man scythes through a Saxon with a roar to crack open the heavens, and he hefts a sword the length of a small child; it is a magnificent weapon.

He makes killing look as if it is strolling in a forest; as if he was born to it.

Then I recognise the man.

It is Arthur- His face hardened with battle, his breath rasping from his throat in exhaustion. He sees me prostrate on the lawn of his adopted country, and for a moment, we are both islands of calm and stillness in the centre of the mêlée.

Then he rushes to me, all tranquillity broken, just as my eyes flicker closed. I have not the strength to keep them open.

Still I hear the battle rage around us, although the yells are diminishing.

Arthur's arms lift me up, and I can smell the blood on his clothes.

"It was my life to be taken!" He shouts to his God, "Not this! Never this…"

I can feel the final darkness coming… Peace at last, freedom from the death and destruction…

"My Knights, I have failed you…"


End file.
